


Of Cantaloupes and Scribbles

by bocje_ce_ustu



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Charles Cheerleads, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, M/M, Pining, Proofreads I meant proofreads, erik is a writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bocje_ce_ustu/pseuds/bocje_ce_ustu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles’ eyes shine in bashful mirth, no more staring him in the eye but not quite looking away either.<br/>Erik still wonders what on earth Charles sees in him to keep coming back here, time after time, and still he’s got no answer. Of course, that’s because Charles is the one with the answers, Charles is the one filling the holes and giving meaning to things.<br/>Maybe he likes stories, that’s all.</p>
<p>Or, the one where Erik is a novelist and Charles is his neighbour (and like the good neighbour he is, he makes sure Erik survives the writing process).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cantaloupes and Scribbles

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the lovely writer AU prompt on [this](http://cup-of-hot-coffee.tumblr.com/post/118599158660/job-aus) list (which is gold all around, by the way).

_“At last we meet again, Herr Doktor,” Max says_

when he has run out of paper to hurl behind his back after the umpteenth try at a gradual, subtle introduction to the climax, and he has finally decided to tackle the key scene in earnest, hoping it will bring about some inkling as how to spur the moment on without making it seem remarkably stale or too obviously shoehorned in.

_“At last indeed, my boy”, Sebastian Shaw replies, his voi_

A knock on the door.

_“At last indeed, my boy”, Sebastian Shaw replies, his voice sweet with_

Another knock.

Erik scratches the words out furiously, feeling like he’s being possessed by the Ghost of Inspirations Past.

_“At last indeed, my boy”, Sebastian Shaw replies, his honeyed voice tasting like salt on Max’s woun_

Whoever is at the other side of the door hasn’t given up yet.

Erik puts the pen down with a groan and hopes it’s not the shark reserve donation guy _again_. He pads down the hallway, pointedly not looking in the mirror on the closet as he passes by, and opens the door.

Okay, so he probably should have looked in the mirror before answering this. He has the terrible feeling he’s just earned another week’s worth of healthy breakfasts and house cleaning service. This guy is a mother hen.

Pale face framed by flappy dark hair, big blue eyes and utterly distracting smile, Charles is standing on his doorstep, a chock-full grocery bag dangling from a hand.

“Seriously,” Erik huffs out in lieu of a greeting. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to comb the mutinous strands back into an impression of cleanliness, it’s hard to say whether out of exasperation at Charles’s stubbornness or in a studious attempt to hide the goofy grin threatening to split his face in two in an uncontrollable mirror neuron reaction.

“Believe it or not,” Charles has the look of immaculate innocence he usually saves for when he wants Erik to kill off some character. “These are my groceries, and I came here with no other intent than to say hi.”

“Then leave them by the door,” Erik demands in the firmest tone he can manage, which is not nearly as convincing as he hoped.

“Are you out of your mind?” Charles’s face twists in mock horror. “One of your evil neighbours could take them!”

“You’re the only evil neighbour here,” Erik points out.

“You’re underestimating Logan’s voracious appetite for scallions,” Charles insists, gaze bouncing back and forth from one gap between Erik and the doorframe to the other, like a cat gauging distance and risk before a leap.

“You forget Logan lives two floors up.” Erik spreads his legs so that he covers the entire width of the threshold, the outside of his feet digging into the base of the doorframe. His fingers curl protectively around the creases in the wood.

Charles leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “He can smell them from miles away.”

Erik won’t let himself be distracted. This is just another of Charles’s tricks, and it is paramount that Charles’s bag doesn’t cross the threshold.

He can do this.

He could do this, if Charles hadn’t just decided to launch himself bodily at Erik, sending him staggering back inside.

“I said no!” Erik cries out. He’s trying to make a point here, not certainly to burst out laughing. He grabs Charles under his armpits to try and hoist him back outside, bag and all, to which Charles reacts by steadfastly digging his heels into the ground. Every attempt on Erik’s part to disarm Charles of his notorious weapon ends in Charles chuckling and dangling his bag in all directions, always out of reach.

Then Charles catches him by surprise again, suddenly ducking to avoid another of Erik’s playful attempts to wrestle him away from the entrance. Erik’s attack falls short and, before he knows, one of his hands is brushing over the hem of Charles’s open jacket and across his shirt, fingers intercepting a peaked bud rising from the skin underneath.

Realisation is a rush of blood to his cheeks and goosebumps on his arms, as his fingers barely remember to hold on to the much safer spot they’ve reached on Charles’s shoulder, the tips still tingling at the ghost sensation.

Charles exploits this temporary short circuit of Erik’s brain to scamper off along the hallway with just the slightest push at Erik’s shoulder to set him aside. One moment later Erik is hot on his heels but it’s a moment too late: from the end of the hallway he sees Charles sprint the last few meters to the kitchen and plop the bag onto the counter with an exultant grin.

Erik knows that sooner or later they’re going to have a conversation about Charles doing his shopping for free – as for the whole story of having to stop by Erik’s with the groceries even though Charles lives just across the hallway, no one would ever buy it, at least not after the fifth time he forgot the bags at Erik’s – but Charles is already discarding his coat and scarf and dangerously approaching his writing desk.

Erik beats him to it before Charles has the chance to take a good look at his hideous scribbles. He fakes a relaxed pose, elbows firmly planted in the middle of chapter twenty-seven, wannabe plot-twist where final confrontation between Max Eisenhardt and his archenemy Sebastian Shaw is currently _not_ taking place. Charles sits on the couch, a little smile playing on his lips as he drapes his hands over his knees.

“So how’s the novel coming along? Do we get a glimpse at retribution?”

Erik sighs. There is no escaping Charles’ insistent prodding when it comes down to Erik’s writing. Then again, Erik seriously doubts chapters one to twenty-six would have seen the light of day if it weren’t for Charles nosing around and picking at plot holes and questioning characters’ motivations until Erik’s scribbles turn into something meaningful, something worth reading. The thing is that Charles gets it in a way no one can. He’s put down roots in Erik’s fictional world as if he’s always belonged in there (a feeling, Erik reckons, that has only strengthened since chapter ten), he knows each one of the characters probably more intimately than even Erik does, he’s on first name basis with their fears and dreams as if they were his own.

“I’m trying for a glimpse, but I feel like I’m getting more of a shiner for my trouble.”

Charles offers him a smile that is both soft and chiding. “You’re being too hard on yourself, as usual. I’m sure it’s not even half as bad as you think it is.”

“And you’re being too kind, as usual.”

Charles’ eyes shine in bashful mirth, no more staring him in the eye but not quite looking away either. Erik still wonders what on earth Charles sees in him to keep coming back here, time after time, and still he’s got no answer. Of course, that’s because Charles is the one with the answers, Charles is the one filling the holes and giving meaning to things.

Maybe he likes stories, that’s all.

“Enough pleasantries.” Charles pats his own knees in resolution. “And back to business. How’s Max doing?”

“Not quite well, I’m afraid. Since Mystique left, he—”

“Mystique left him?” Charles’s mouth drops open in shock. “I thought they were on the same page.”

Erik snorts. “Page eighty to ninety-four, maybe.”

 

Mystique and Max’s heated love affair is the story arc holding the gold medal for Most Awkward and Fond Memory To Date in Erik’s heart.

While he was writing it, he sought out Charles’s advice as usual and what he got in return was a horrified look and the hands-over-eyes protest that he would not ‘picture you and my sister together in detail, for fuck’s sake, Erik’.

Despite that, in the end curiosity prevailed – probably due to Erik’s hardened habit to write only scenes that are necessary to the plot as a whole, thus disseminating even said seemingly self-indulgent intimate scene with key plot points – so Erik found himself staring at Charles in concern as the man went over the draft, delivering the occasional _ew_ (probably at some too overtly written sexual innuendo), long-suffering sigh (no doubt at the characters’ sexual prowess) or delighted gasp (at some particularly juicy revelation).

But then – and that was when things began to get really awkward – from the couch came a reaction Erik hadn’t prepared himself at all: a click of Charles’s tongue.

What was that for? A satisfied confirmation of a long-pondered theory? No, that didn’t sound pleased at all. A spelling mistake? Erik did write fast, but also double – sometimes even triple – checked a chapter once he had it all typed down on his laptop. So what could it be?

But there was more to it, because a few moments later Charles lowered the stack of papers onto the couch, unconvinced, and began raising his arms in turns, bending and stretching them at awkward angles, checking something on the draft from time to time. At last Charles dropped his arm with a scowl and declared sullenly, “No, that’s physically impossible.”

Erik bit back a laugh, still oblivious to the source of Charles’s dismay. “They _are_ mutants, after all.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that”, he sighed. “It’s just… this part here. There’s no way your arm can stretch like that. Unless you’re Inspector Gadget, I guess.” Charles handed the draft back to him, a finger pointing out the relevant part.

It took him only a few moments to recognise the bit – a scene he’d spent an awful amount of time to write, always coming back to it to edit the least convincing parts until he had something he was (since _proud_ was still out of the question, at that point of the novel) satisfied with.

“See?” Charles went in full-on teacher mode. “Here Max has a hand supporting the back of Mystique’s head, then down he goes to her lady parts – which, if you ask me, is already a stretch for the arm up there, ‘cause it’s bound to bend ridiculously – and then further down where he kisses her knee and wraps his free hand around her ankle – his _free_ hand, since he apparently has the other one still curled around the back of her head”, he concluded, a sceptical eyebrow high on his forehead.

Erik’s eyes skimmed over the scene again and identified the root of the problem. A victorious grin formed on his lips.

“Not to burst your bubble, but all of this has a simple explanation.”

“Has it? All right, then.” Charles flashed him a defiant smirk. “Show me.”

“Show you?” Actually a verbal explanation would quite cover it, but Erik’s tongue was stuck in a pathetic echo of Charles’s words.

Charles took him by the wrist and pulled him down on the couch. “Yes, Inspector. Now, I’m your beautiful Mystique,” he quipped, placing Erik’s hand on the back of his own neck and pushing his hips down to lie on the couch, dragging Erik over himself in the process. “Manhandle me.”

It should have been ridiculous, what with Charles trying (and failing) to subtly bat his lashes at him in a totally non-Mystique way and breathing out propositions in low, sultry tones, but Erik couldn’t find it in himself to laugh, not when he was suddenly where his deepest slumber always led him, and steadily aware of every point of contact between his and Charles’s bodies.

“A simple explanation, you were saying,” Charles remarked, nonplussed. His hand was warm on Erik’s, keeping it there in the adamant volition to prove Erik wrong.

“Yes,” Erik agreed, though it didn’t seem as simple now. His cheeks were burning – a most singular phenomenon, given that he could feel his blood being drained in the opposite direction – and he struggled to adjust his front as far from Charles’s body as he could.

Judging from his smug face, Charles looked insanely amused by Erik’s embarrassment, and Erik was determined to change that.

“Right,” he began, noticing with a certain pride that his voice sounded almost as detached as a tour guide’s. “You probably assumed Max would lower himself over Mystique like this.” His words were followed by a controlled descent of his head over Charles’s chest and abdomen, his chin stopping right above his crotch. He gazed up at Charles who, in spite of the complacent curl of his lips, looked now fairly pinker than Erik remembered. His hold on Erik’s hand had also slightly tightened. “But if he does this,” his free hand reached for the back of Charles’s thigh and pulled his leg up, bending it at the knee, and there it was, the small, surprised hitch in Charles’s breath, “the problem is solved.” He raised his head and set his chin on the curve of Charles’s knee, grinning wildly as he latched the hand Charles wasn’t holding around his ankle.

“You’ve just made that up,” Charles protested, releasing Erik’s hand and urging him off so they could sit back up on the couch. “Cheat,” he muttered under his breath, freeing his legs from under Erik’s and curling up beside the armrest.

“I’m a writer,” Erik retaliated, hating himself a little more with every inch he put between them to give Charles space. “I make things up for a living.”

He met Charles’s gaze and they burst out laughing and, just like that, the tension in the room dissolved.

Then Charles proceeded to accurately vivisect every single sentence in the scene as if nothing had happened, and Erik fled to his desk to retrieve a pen and a notebook to jot down his suggestions – all at a perfectly safe distance, and with his legs neatly crossed in front of his crotch.

 

“Okay, I may have missed something.” Charles’s voice brings him back to the present.

“Actually, you didn’t.” Erik turns around and digs out a sheaf of printed paper, where entire portions of text were dashed out and a good part of the margins crammed with minute handwriting. “Your advice paid off. Max’s love scene with Mystique seems indeed forced. I thought about what you said to me last time, in terms of characters’ motivation, and I found out I had started from the wrong premise.”

He sees Charles struggle to keep a straight face and not interrupt him. Erik fought tooth and nail to validate his version, even when it became obvious he was grabbing at straws, and Charles knows how much it costs him to step down and admit defeat.

“What Mystique really wants,” Erik begins, choosing his words carefully. “What she needs, isn’t a lover. It’s acceptance. That’s what Max and her bond over first. She needs it, and he can give it to her. But that doesn’t necessarily imply they like each other, or want to spend the rest of their existence together. Ok, so they could probably… I don’t know, find some pleasure in a sexual relationship, I guess, but that would be it. Mystique doesn’t care for Max’s obsession, and she perfectly knows that, when the time comes, he won’t have any qualms with sacrificing her to it. So she’s okay for the ride, but isn’t going to jump if he says jump. She’s no Bond girl.”

Charles waits until Erik is finished, a soft smile growing larger and fonder at every sentence. But when he’s done, Charles says the exact thing Erik expected him to say.

“Are you saying I suffered through ten pages of X-rated content for nothing?”

Charles’s outraged face is so hilarious a chuckle escapes Erik’s mouth.

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he explains. “If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have figured it out.”

Charles lowers his eyes on the scribbled pages in his hands, brow knitted in concentration as he tries to decode Erik’s squiggles. “Can I borrow it? I wish I could read it here but I have to get going soon.”

“I’ll give you a copy as soon as I finish typing it,” Erik promises, receiving a soft smile in return.

“Thanks. So tell me…” In an instant Charles’s smile turns to predatory. “What’s so terrible about the next chapter that you feel the need to hide it at all costs?”

Erik offers him a wry smile as he turns his desk chair and sinks down into it. “Don’t tell me about it. Now that Raven’s gone, all that’s left is Shaw, whom I’d really love to kill, if I only knew how. I shouldn’t have listened to my editor when I had him cornered in Argentina.”

“I think your editor was right about that, for what it’s worth”, Charles says. _Of course you do_ , Erik thinks darkly. _She’s your sister._ Raven Darkhölme and her multiple personality disorder-induced editorial choices are part of what makes his job so painfully hard. Most days he just emails her the new chapters from home instead of coming by her office, lest he gives in to the urge to throttle her. “Back when Max had cornered Shaw in Argentina it would have felt a bit too soon. Now we know a lot more about Max’s past and how Sebastian Shaw a.k.a. Klaus Schmidt had a part in it.”

“That’s right, but I have nothing to bring them together now. Zero momentum, nothing to revolve action around.”

Charles seems to think about it for a while. “What about the telepath?” he says then.

“What about him?”

“He asked Max to help him finding other mutants, right? After he saved him from drowning.”

Chapter ten, born in a sleepless night spent huddled in a blanket with a glass of whiskey at his elbow, wondering what could be the name of the stranger who had just moved into the flat at the other side of the hallway. The blue-eyed, red-lipped stranger that had pulled him under his umbrella in the torrential rain, latching a confident arm around Erik’s shoulders as though they had always known each other.

“Yes, but Max refused,” Erik points out, not sure where this is going.

“But now he needs someone he can trust to help him locate Shaw again.”

“I’m not sure,” Erik scratches his forehead, pondering the possibility. “Max’s not a team player.”

“He doesn’t need to. What he needs is opportunity, and X can give him that.”

It makes sense. X the telepath has the means to carry out the search – and he would probably die from happiness at the chance of helping a fellow mutant, Erik thinks, eyes wandering from Charles’s look of excitement to his hands, dancing through the air – but he…

“But X would never let him kill Shaw.”

Charles looks at a loss for a moment. “Why wouldn’t he?”

The words are out before he can think otherwise, but Erik knows they’re true. “Because he cares.”

And then Charles’s eyes light up and Erik has the confirmation he needs to go on.

“He knows Max’s whole life revolves around this mad chase, and thinks he won’t be able to find any meaning to his life if he doesn’t let Shaw go.”

Charles’s expression turns to calculating once again. “So what if Shaw doesn’t die in the end? What if he lives?”

Erik ponders the question carefully, weighting Max’s grief and bitter resentment, then shakes his head. “Max’s drive is too strong, he _will_ have Shaw’s head.”

Charles is undeterred. “Then make him lie to X. Let X believe Max is his friend until Max has his chance to get to Shaw and kill him.”

“That’s just cruel!” Erik blurts out, staring in disbelief at Charles’s wicked smile.

“But it works now, right?”

“Yes, but you would make me call forth X again only to break the poor lad’s heart.”

“Oh, I think he can survive that.” Charles shrugs. “If anything, that gives you a nemesis for your next arc.”

“And I don’t really think Max would lie to X,” Erik objects again. “It’s not that he can’t if he wants to,” he adds hastily, to prevent Charles from candidly reminding him about the telepath’s abilities. “It’s just that— he doesn’t see the point of it. Aside from being aware of and respecting X’s power, which of course is a considerable variable, Max has always been true to himself and to others as to what he wants. This is his battle, his due payback, the moment he’s been waiting for all his life. He’s not ashamed of that. No, I don’t think he would lie about it.”

Charles nods, a pensive curl to his lips. “Still, if X decides to help him, he probably does so believing he can somewhat change his mind. Let us find a bunch of mutants together, he thinks, get to know each other, build up a team… maybe Max will find a new purpose and let go of his past.”

“And maybe Max even considers it, stops mentioning Shaw for a while, and X assumes Max will stay.”

“Perhaps X knows Max is only staying as long as they find Shaw, but hopes till the last moment he’ll have a change of heart,” Charles counters.

“Which he hasn’t, and that leads us to X actively trying to talk Max out of his plans.” Erik sees X’s desires unfold as the words tumble out of his lips. “X wants him there, beside him, not to mention the fact that he fears for Max’s life.”

“How about a scene where they discuss it, and they go from X’s ‘I’m so happy we’re doing this together’ to Max’s ‘You know I’m going to kill Shaw anyway, right?’ Imagine that.”

And Erik does, picturing the fire crackling beyond a brass screen, sending golden flickers scattering all over the room and colouring the chessboard in warm hues of chestnut and amber; two old, well-worn armchairs sitting by the fireplace, springs squeaking softly as their occupants’ posture changes from leisurely to increasingly charged; fingers pausing to close around a piece, a checkmate weighing above the players’ heads long before the game is over.

“It should probably begin with X expressing his satisfaction at their recruiting success,” Erik muses, the scene playing out in his mind’s eye.

“But Max knows X is only playing for time,” Charles takes over from there. “He won’t drag it off. This is goodbye, and it’s better if it’s done with quickly.” Harsh words, alien to Charles’s tongue, still and all sincere. Charles plays Max as though he’s a deep, intimate part of him.

“For all that X tries to steer clear from the topic,” Erik adds “Max tells him right away. He needs to show X he hasn’t softened, but he needs to do that—”

“—in a way that shows him also Max’s respect,” Charles completes for him, nodding in understanding.

“X gets it. The time for games is over, so he drops all pretences and tells Max the only thing he can say.”

“Which is that killing Shaw won’t solve anything,” Charles elaborates, eyes shining. “He won’t bring his loved ones back.”

“Nor the peace of mind he’s seeking,” Erik adds. “But Max won’t listen to him—”

“–because peace was never an option,” Charles concludes, voice thick with the gravity of the moment, and Erik wants to kiss him.

Here comes another problem, though. Other than Erik’s constant awareness of Charles’s lips, that is.

“But what happens to X then?” Erik wonders, thinking out loud. “What if he tries to stop Max?” _Could he die trying?_ Erik tries to picture that and the thought alone of big, honest blue eyes turning blank sends a shiver down his spine. Charles looks up from his wristwatch and offers him the hint of a smile. Something cringes inside him. He’s not sure he can kill off X if needs be.

“I’m sure you’ll work that out just fine,” Charles’s saying, his smile turning apologetic as he stands from the couch, “I’m sorry, I have a shift in ten and—”

Erik nods, springing up from his seat to hand back over to Charles his scarf and coat.

“It’s all right.” Their fingers brush as Charles takes the scarf Erik’s holding out for him and _no,_ _it’s not all right_. Erik can feel his cheeks heating again and hopes against hope he’s not beet red. In any case, Charles doesn’t seem to notice.

Erik clears his throat. “Anyway, I think you’ve just saved the plot from doom.”

“I think I’ve just saved you from Raven’s wrath,” Charles giggles as he follows Erik down the hallway.

“That goes beyond saying.” Erik swings the door open, stepping aside to make room for Charles. “Thank you, Charles.”

Charles shakes his head lightly, his smile growing fonder on his face. “Thanks for sharing your work with me,” he says, not quite moving from the door, his eyes lingering on Erik’s face like he’s found some secret there he still hasn’t decided to share.

“Okay, so…” Erik really wishes he knew what it is. “Have a nice day.”

Charles finally drops his gaze and steps out into the communal hallway. “You too. See you later, then.”

_Later?_ his brain unhelpfully supplies, but dismisses the question as soon as it registers a bigger issue within Charles’s withdrawing figure. One hand is raised and waving goodbye, the other is reaching for the keys in a pocket.

Erik swore never to fall for it again.

“Charles, wait! You forgot your bag.” _Again._

Charles looks back at him in befuddlement, one hand already lowering the handle and the other removing the key from the lock. “What bag?” Then he winks and disappears behind the closed door of his apartment.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Erik shuts his own door and walks back to the kitchen counter, where the groceries Charles bought specifically for him sit triumphantly on the smooth granite surface.

He rummages through the bag to explore its contents, finding that, among from a considerable amount of fruit and greens probably coming from the organic shop around the corner, if the logo on the biodegradable bag is any indication, there’s also milk, eggs and a generous cut of beef carefully wrapped in a package Erik recognises from the kosher butcher three roads down.

Erik’s memory of Charles’s first shopping blitz suddenly envelops him like a warm, soft blanket around his shoulders on a chilly winter’s night. They barely knew each other back then, and Erik’s private nature hadn’t allowed Charles to orient his shopping in a specific direction. It was with a crestfallen face that Charles had accepted the smoked bacon package back alongside with Erik’s explanation of the reason why, however considerate, that gift could not be accepted. Charles babbled out an apology in cheeks so brightly flushed that Erik for a moment forgot what he’d gone to Charles’s door for, and just stood there with his hands still gripping the bacon Charles was desperately trying to make disappear. When at last he released the package, he surprised them both by inviting Charles over to dinner – as a way to repay him for his kindness, of course. Erik didn’t want things to get awkward between them as a side effect of Charles’s interest in his wellbeing. He imagined – hoped, actually – that after that uncomfortable discovery Charles would just stop trying to feed Erik at his own expenses, but that didn’t happen. After that initial faux pas, Charles only got more careful in choosing the food he would casually dump, despite Erik’s vocal protests, on top of his kitchen counter every time he passed by.

After he’s sorted the dairies and meat and put them in the fridge, and with green kale and nectarines, bananas and zucchini still cluttering the countertop, Erik fishes out the cantaloupe lying at the bottom of the bag and notices with a jolt of surprise a scrap of paper below it. Charles is usually very careful not to leave behind any hint at the price he paid for Erik to pester him with. The scrap isn’t the customary thermal paper of receipts, though. It rather looks like the corner of a page torn from a planner, with thin lines and half a red number along the jagged edge. There’s nothing to be gathered from the front of the paper, but an inspection of the back reveals a message scribbled in a familiar, messy handwriting, made messier by the fact that it looks like it was put together in a haste on an uneven, possibly moving surface. Erik imagines Charles scrawling it on the bus on the way home or leaning on the wall just outside Erik’s flat, and can’t help the smile creeping on his face as he smooths out the creases on the piece of paper, caressing the blotched ink with his thumb.

His heart is forever lost to a giddy victory dance.

His brain, helplessly trying to retain control of his conscience, thunders that a shower and a change are in order.

 

_8 pm at mine. We’re going out._

_P.S. Wear something._

_P.P.S. The Black Turtleneck of Gloom doesn’t count._

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mutantis Idiotis (Remix of "Of Cantaloupes and Scribbles")](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442789) by [Fullmetalcarer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fullmetalcarer/pseuds/Fullmetalcarer)




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